Lima Syndrome
by sad little tiger
Summary: Partner. Lover. Enemy. Slave. Over the course of a decade, identities and roles are changed, but the bond between them remains. AU with canon events. Mature.
1. Bad Moon Rising

_2011_

 _Unnamed Holding Facility, Cuba_

"That's her?" Alex Wesker asked. She kicked a dead soldier's hand out of the way to stand closer to the two-way mirror. Her eyes squinted into agitated slits. " _That's_ the girl?"

On the other side, a defeated-looking woman with white-blonde hair sat huddled in a corner of the padded cell. A medical gown hung from her emaciated shoulders. She hugged her knees to her thin chest and buried her face there, shielding herself from the blinding lights of the lab.

"That's her, ma'am," the soldier replied. He flipped through a chart.

Alex yanked it from his hands. She scanned each page, her manicured fingertip tracking the lines of doctor jargon and filler. She sighed. The girl was repeatedly referred to as "P-30". _Patient 30, perhaps?_ Alex thought to herself. _Was it the drug? Maybe the device that had been on her chest?_ Her brother had been so cryptic. He believed he was so clever, so _special_. The worst part was that it was true; Albert Wesker was _everything_ he'd imagined himself to be.

Alex had hated him in life…

And now she hated him in death.

"Open it up," Alex said, handing the clipboard off to one of her men.

"Ma'am, you realize —"

"Open it," she repeated, her feline eyes flashing.

* * *

The airtight door sprung open, hydraulics pulling it back into the reinforced walls. The girl barely stirred. She stayed in the corner, her face remained hidden.

Alex stepped into the holding cell, her Louboutin heels made silent on the leather floor. Hands in the pockets of her wide-leg pants, she stared down at the skinny girl, and then surveyed the room. Thickly padded walls, as white as her own suit. Nothing else. They'd stripped everything out. Alex wiggled her nose, sniffing in the sterile scent of the lab.

"I would wager that… you already know who I am." She strolled while she orated, as full of herself as her brother had been.

The girl in the corner didn't reply, but she'd revealed half of her face - just to the eyes. And such strange, cold, blue eyes. Alex tried not to stare.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," she said.

The girl was silent.

"And thank your lucky stars that I'm not half a day later. These conditions are deplorable. Have you been living like this for two years? Truly?" She sneered.

"Yes," the girl said. Her voice was deeper than Alex had expected, and gravelly with disuse.

Alex turned to her then. She thrust out her hand, forceful. Hesitantly, the girl reached out and shook it, her unsettling gaze on Alex the entire time.

"Jill Valentine," the living-dead girl said in her raspy tone.

"A pleasure… But if you wouldn't mind, we really must to be on our way. Our little ambush was agreed upon, of course, but under the condition of seeming like a… _search and seizure_." Alex replied.

She was punctuated by breaking glass as her men tore the lab apart.

She smiled.

* * *

Alex Wesker was a well-connected woman. The team flew out of the José Martí airport in a luxurious private jet bound for Russia. No security checkpoints, no waiting, no fuss. It was a straight shot, all the way to a little island just off the coast of Paramushir.

Jill sat exactly where she was placed - as silent and still as a little doll. She watched the world pass under her six hundred miles at a time.

Albert Wesker's sad little doll.

* * *

Alex led her through the mansion, gesturing left and right, talking incessantly. She took her up wide, grand staircases, and down narrow, winding stairwells; into opulent rooms with gold crown moulding, and through desolate, suffocating dungeons. Jill followed close behind, nearly draging herself in her exhaustion. Alex though, seemed not to notice.

"I came here to Paramushir in 2004 to escape Spencer, you see. He was bound and determined to kill us all. We Wesker children, I mean. Even the two of us… the survivors of Progenitor." She waved a graceful hand, dismissive. She spoke in quick, uneven spurts, her unconnected thoughts babbling up like a fountain. "Albert was always the favorite. Always." Her lip involuntarily curled at the memory. "And when my dearest brother went off the tracks, Spencer had a conniption. He became a man possessed, completely unhinged. And Albert… well, you know."

Jill leaned against a brocaded wall, sagging. Alex turned to look at her.

"I imagine you're in need of a shower. And a good meal," she said, finally acknowledging her.

"That would be nice," Jill said, her voice deadpan.

Alex looked her up and down. The sarcasm didn't seem to register. "Absolutely," she said, ever the gracious host.

* * *

Her _people_ stood just outside of the shower as if there was some possible escape from the island. Jill slowly, painfully scrubbed the stench of the lab off herself. Her milky skin was marred by bruises and cuts and intravenous ports that fed in her chest just under her collar bones. The steam clouded up around her as she worked the soap into her hair… her poor hair. Clumps of it, white-blonde and tangled, gathered at her feet and swirled down the drain. Jill watched herself fall apart.

* * *

From the head of a dining table that could have seated twenty guests, Alex watched her. She ran a long finger around the edge of her wine glass, her glossy red nail glittering in the low light. Her patience ran very thin. Jill had requested food, and she'd gotten it - plenty of it. Bitochki and belorussion draniki and gouryevskaya kasha and a thousand other finger bowls full of dates and nuts and little pickled vegetables. Still, she did not eat. Instead, she sat, staring.

Occasionally, she would frown to herself. It was almost as if there was something going on behind her eyes… a conversation, an exchange. Alex had imagined she might be paranoid, perhaps even violent, but not _certifiably_ insane.

"Not hungry?" Alex finally asked.

Jill took a deep breath. "I just need a minute."

"We have a lot of everything, but not minutes, I'm sorry to say." She picked at her nails.

"Let's cut to the chase then, Alex," Jill said, her voice somehow different, her phrasing strange. Alex sat back in her chair, silenced by the change in the girl.

"What was the nature of your relationship with my brother?" she asked after she regained her balance in the conversation.

"I was his slave."

"If you think I believe that for one minute…" She narrowed her eyes, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward.

"Well, what was I to him? Tell me."

"Ms. Valentine, I don't know what your relation to Albert was, but you were not his _slave_."

Jill laughed, scrunching a cloth napkin in her bony hand.

Alex swallowed, made suddenly nervous. "I have reason to think you were his partner and —" She stopped.

"I wasn't his partner. Not ever," she snapped.

They stared at each other.

"I was his lover," she admitted.

Alex arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"I was his lover from the very start."

* * *

In 1997, I was only twenty-four years old. I was young and bright and hopeful. I'd just gotten out of the military - U.S. Army Delta Force, can you believe I'd give that up? I can't, definitely not now - and I was basically… well, I guess I was scouted. I got a phone call from a man named Brian Irons. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday…

I had been digging up an abandoned garden patch for my mother on the side of her two-story house. The smell of the dirt and the earthworms was as comforting to me as the midday sun on my back. I yanked up roots and weeds and tossed them into a pile.

"Jilly?" My mother's voice floated down to me from the kitchen window.

I looked up, brushing hair out of my face. "Yeah?"

"Phone call for you."

Phone call for _me_? At my mother's house? Who would have known I was there - I'd only driven home two days ago.

I pulled the canvas gloves off. "Coming," I called back.

My mother stood in the kitchen holding the phone. Little styrofoam spreaders were wedged between her toes, her nail polish half-applied.

"Who is it?" I mouthed.

She grimaced and shrugged, unknowing. "A man," she whispered.

"Chris?"

She shook her head.

"Then who?" I hissed.

Exasperated, she thrust the receiver into my dirty hands. I glared at her and leaned on the partition to the dining room.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking with Ms. Jillian Valentine?" A deep, serious voice.

"Yes, this is her."

"Ms. Valentine, this is Chief Brian Irons, of the Raccoon City Police Department. I got your name and number from a —" he paused, and I could hear papers shuffling. "A Christopher Redfield. You two grew up together, did you not?"

I frowned. "Yes. We did. I'm sorry - what is this in regards to?"

"Well, in case you didn't know, Mr. Redfield accepted a position on our elite force. A new unit: Special Tactics and Rescue Service, based here in Raccoon City."

"Uh-huh…" I had no idea where it was all going.

"He mentioned you recently retired from your position in the Army."

"I did," I said. "Yes. Again, I'm not sure—"

"There's no formal way to say this… but if you're looking for an employment in Ohio, we would like the opportunity to meet with you."

My heart pounded in my ears. "I'd be interested, definitely," I said, trying to keep my voice from betraying my excitement. I was fresh out of the military with a sorry little savings account and no viable skills other than obeying orders. I'd never imagined I'd have a chance to land a position I had experience in so quickly. "When, uh… when could we… arrange this?"

I looked at my mother, wide-eyed. She was standing on the other side of the doorway, her arms crossed, listening. I cradled the phone between my face and my shoulder and made a writing motion. She darted out of my sight and returned with a pen and scrap of paper.

By the end of the infamous phone call, I'd gotten an interview date.

"So?" My mother asked.

"So… I might have a real job."

* * *

The interview itself was pretty standard. Question and answer, some description of responsibilities, a brief summary of the station's history. I was sure that I had been composed and competent, even though I had been quaking in my boots.

Chris walked me out, and we spoke conspiratorially.

"And? What did you think?" he asked, barely containing his smile.

It was contagious. I bit my lip and smiled too. "I think it went well… Thanks for this, by the way."

He dismissed my gratitude with a toss of his head. "Not a problem, Jilly. When did he say you'll hear back?"

"Soon. Yeah. Like, today maybe. He said that they're on a tight schedule to fill these positions," I told him.

"Right, right… It's been pretty busy around…" He trailed off. I followed his gaze.

A voluptuous secretary passed us on the grand staircase. He all but bored a hole through her cleavage with his eyes. The same skirt-chasing Chris.

After some effort, he turned his attention back to me, trapping me between himself and the wall. One hand planted behind my head, the other on his hip, he almost comically cornered me. People, officers, paper-pushers streamed past us as we stood there, in the middle of the busiest staircase. And despite how cliche it was, whenever Chris turned up the voltage on his charm, I never ceased to be fooled. "What's the plan for tomorrow night?" he asked.

"I dunno." I'd worn my hair down that day, and I tucked some of it behind my ear. "Whatever."

He looked around, scanning the crowds of police men and women. He rubbed his jaw, thoughtful. "Frost and me and Vickers were gonna slouch around in J's Bar… if you wanna make an appearance. I'll introduce you to the dumbasses you'll be working with," he offered. I knew the bar very well - it was a nasty little dive, and one of the only places that stayed open in good old Raccoon past seven. An older guy walked up to Chris and they bumped shoulders in greeting, exchanging a laugh and comment about hating work.

"Sure, I'll be there," I said. I was so eager then. "Sounds good."

"Alright." He straightened up, his thousand watt smile beaming down on me. "'Bout eight, yeah?"

"Yeah." I smiled again, nodding.

"Okay, Jilly-Bean. Got my fingers crossed for ya." He winked at me and took off back up the stairs, two at a time. I watched him go and sighed.

Five years I'd been on and off his trail. Five long years.

And as I stood there, contemplating my half-decade flirtation with Chris Redfield, someone ran into me. Papers everywhere, coffee spilled, the whole nine yards. Straight out of a movie. If it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't have believed things like that actually occurred in real life, without a script.

And the guy… the guy who ran into _me_ … towered over me then, looked down on me, his mouth twisted into an absolutely cartoonish expression of disgust. My breath caught in my chest.

With a sigh, he leaned down to retrieve the file folder and crime scene photos he'd dropped. I bent down to help him, sweeping the glossies into a pile and handing them back. He stopped then, and we looked at each other, crouched among the legs that walked past us.

He was wearing very dark sunglasses, and he peered at me, or _through_ me, over the frames. I might be romanticizing the memory a bit, but his eyes were hypnotic. Hypnotic, _empty_ blue eyes… even then.

I felt compelled to apologize. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Accepted. Be more careful next time, hmm?"

And all these years later and I still don't know what came over me at that moment, but this gem escaped me: "Maybe don't wear sunglasses inside. So you can see where you're going."

He blinked. Just once. Disbelief, I'm sure. He looked like a guy who wasn't told to _shove it_ very often.

I regretted it the very second the words materialized. "Jill Valentine," I said. I didn't extend a hand; I'm fairly certain he would have rejected a shake after my explosive self-introduction.

"Captain Albert Wesker," he replied.

My heart dropped. "Sir." There was no recovery at that point, but it couldn't hurt to acknowledge rank.

He filed the photographs into the manilla folder in his hand and regarded the cup of spilled coffee. He stood, leaving the mess where it was. And then he brushed past me. The ache in my chest told me I'd lost it - I'd lost the job before I'd even gotten it. Dejected, I picked up the cup and started down the rest of the staircase. My feet felt leaded.

I'll never forget his voice, calling my name for the first time.

" _Ms. Valentine._ "

I turned and stared up at him. He was on the very top step, just before the second floor of the bustling police station. Even then, he looked like he didn't belong - like some piece of art that had walked off into another frame.

"I expect we'll see you Monday morning. Seven. Do not be late."

I struggled for a beat to find words. "But… Chief Irons… and —"

"Do you want the job or not?" He barked.

I nodded, looking absolutely terrified, I'm sure.

"Monday morning then."

And he strolled off, lost in the sea of blue suits and shining badges.

* * *

"She _was_ fucking hot, wasn't she?" Chris took another swig of his beer.

"She was, dude… she was. If she didn't tug your heartstrings, no one will," Brad Vickers said, stopping to drink his own microbrew.

"You've got to settle down sometime, young man," Barry Burton added. He wasn't drinking; something about his wife hating how sloppy he got.

"I don't _have_ to do anything but pay taxes and die, old man," Chris smiled, taking a sip.

"True, true," Joseph Frost agreed, holding up his empty glass for cheers. They all suddenly pointed at each other with their best _attaboy_ grins and everyone but me belly-laughed at their inside man-jokes.

I sat on Chris's left, awkwardly nursing a seltzer water. The entire hour's discussion since I'd arrived had been limited to the best hunting ammo and all the women Chris had bedded in the past year. I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but this wasn't it.

Every testament of his consummate bachelorhood disappointed me more and more. I think _that_ bothered me more than any of the gory details - the fact that I somehow felt _saddened_ by it. I was just starting out, the job was a godsend, in a few paychecks' time I'd be in my own apartment and out from under my mother's thumb. I couldn't have asked for more at that moment in my life, truly. I guess a greedy part of me was hoping to have the romantic situation figured out too. Having kept in touch with him for all those years… he was always in the very back of my mind, no matter what guy came in and out of my life - and truthfully, I'd let some pretty fantastic men go. Maybe I'd imagined that he'd see me after the four years we'd put between us and… and… He wasn't a bad guy, really. Not at all. He was just… he was just a _guy_. A regular guy with regular dreams.

I knew, even back then when I hadn't yet acknowledged the darker parts of myself, that I could never really be with a man like _him_.

"Cindy! Another round, yeah?" Vickers called to the pretty bar maid. She was pleasant enough to our table, but Chris's co-workers tortured her. I'd cringed more than a few times in our short night: Vickers had dropped a glass twice just to watch her bend over and pick it up; Frost kept writing his number on napkins left conspicuously in her line of sight.

So Chris had been right - I could now absolutely agree that the men I would be working with were dumbasses. I was beginning to regret coming out… but the topic of conversation mercifully changed to something more interesting…

"Fuckin' Wesker, man. Fucking _Wesker_. Did I tell you what he said to me?" Vickers asked.

"Nah," Chris said. He rubbed his beer bottle between his hands.

"He says —" Vickers turned to Barry, who was already rolling his eyes. "No, no dude. I'm serious. Listen to this shit—"

"I don't even need to hear it, Brad. I already know he's an asshole, alright?" Chris said, his voice uncharacteristically angry. He was so breezy… and friendly. I wondered at the bad blood between them. "Just… just the fuckin' sight of his _hair_. That _hair_ … And the sunglasses… what is that shit with him wearing them inside?"

I halfway smiled. Chris looked at me, almost as if he'd forgotten I was there until that moment.

"Oh yeah? What do you think, Jill? What's the _feminine perspective_?" He air-quoted _feminine perspective_ condescendingly.

I cleared my throat and tried to excuse my way out of the conversation. "Well, I mean… I only saw him once. I can't really comment."

"No, that's perfect. Tell us what you think _now_. Right now, before you really get a feel of him," Chris demanded - half-serious, half-joking.

"Do women _really_ like that?" Frost asked, leaning in towards me. He gestured to his face and hair. "That whole pretty boy act?"

All of them were staring at me as if I had become the spokesperson for the entire female population.

I took a deep breath and proceeded as carefully as I could. "Umm… sometimes… yeah. It's nice to date… a man who, you know, takes care of himself. A well-put together guy."

They all frowned.

"Rugged is good though," I tried, backtracking enthusiastically. "I like woodsy men. Axe-swingers. Cowboys. Stuff like that." The hole I'd dug was getting deeper with each ill-chosen word.

"And here I thought you were a country girl, Valentine," Barry said, smiling. "Sounds like you've spent too much time in the city."

"No! I'm not speaking for myself, I'm just saying, objectively… yes. Objectively, some women would think that he was handsome." I tried desperately to extricate from the conversation.

"Ohhh… so he's _handsome_ now," Frost teased. "Tell us what you really think, Valentine."

I must have turned six shades of red. We laughed - the guys laughing at my humiliation, and me laughing at myself.

"I think he's queer," Chris said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"He's not _gay_ ," I rolled my eyes.

"How do you know?" Frost shot back.

"Because I do. He's not." They all looked at me. "I'm serious."

"You'd fuck him, wouldn't you?" Chris asked, quite serious. I stared at him, wide-eyed. I was stunned that he'd try to embarrass me like that in front of my new co-workers. I stammered.

"I don't believe it's any of your business whom Ms. Valentine takes to her bed."

We all whipped around at his voice.

Captain Wesker stood at the bar, his back to our table. That shock of white-blond hair still slicked in place, his spotless police uniform still immaculately ironed and crisp. His head was cocked so that, I imagined, he heard every word of our unsavory conversation. I hadn't seen him come in, hadn't seen him place an order at the bar. All of the color had drained from our respective faces. Chris turned back around, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He knocked down his final swig of beer in the awful silence.

"Did you wanna… have a drink with us, sir?" Barry asked. His voice had gone up an octave, and it quivered. If _Barry_ was made nervous by the Captain, I knew we all should be.

Wesker shook his head. "No, thank you." He reached for his wallet as the bar maid approached him, a bag of take-out in her hand. He must have left the girl a big tip - she smiled at him, all big dumb eyes and fluttering lashes. "I'm afraid my hair may be too much for Mr. Redfield," he said, casting a glance at our table.

And then he walked past our table and out the door.

I turned to Chris. "Oh my God. Are you serious?" I hissed.

He shrugged at me, helpless. "I didn't know he was _there_ , Jill. If he wasn't fuckin' sneaking around everywhere, Jesus H…"

"I have to… should I say something?" I asked him. I turned to the rest of the group.

None of Chris's friends said a word. The mortification was palpable.

I stood then. They all looked at me.

"Let it go, Jill. He'll… he'll forget about it. Don't worry," Chris tried. "It's a small town. He's the new guy. Shit gets talked."

"He'll _forget_ about it? Does he look like someone who forgets?" I almost yelled. "He's our boss, _Chris_."

In the background, _Bad Moon Rising_ played on from the little jukebox. Chris stared at the empty beer bottle in front him.

This was the same exact shit that got him booted from the Airforce.

Insubordination. Disrespect. Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

I pushed my barstool back and stormed out of the bar.

* * *

I jogged out into the parking lot, looking around the cars. Truck, truck, beat up Honda Civic, my Jeep.

He was getting into an Audi under the single light pole, balancing the take-out with one hand and unlocking the car door with the other.

"Captain?" I asked.

He stopped what he was doing but didn't turn around. The keys dangled from his fingers.

"Sir, can I speak with you?" I had no idea what I was going to say.

I could _see_ him sigh.

"I would like to… seriously apologize for my terrible first impressions," I began. "You must… I can't even imagine…"

He did finally turn then. I noticed that his sunglasses were off. His eyes were so strangely pale in that light. Almost clear.

"Anyway," I took a step back, jamming my hands into my jean pockets. "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to working for you… and I hope you have a good weekend."

"You're from the area, are you not?" he asked.

I was startled by his voice. "Yeah. I, uh, grew up - just that way." I looked back down towards Fox Street.

He set the take-out bag on the roof of his car and turned to face me completely then. "Is there anywhere else to eat in this hell hole?"

I laughed. "A few. There's a mom n'pop place off Warren. Burgers, pizza."

"I assume it's just as inedible," he said.

"It is, yeah." I tucked my hair behind my ear. His eyes followed the path of my hand, and then stayed trained on face. I noticed how little he blinked. It should have frightened me. "If you want anything halfway decent, you've gotta take a drive."

He was very still, watching me. I couldn't tell if he was interested, or bored, or flirtatious. He was a blank canvas.

I didn't know what to say.

"Do you know Wisner Road?" he asked then, saving me.

"I do. One of the prettiest roads in town."

The humid summer air seemed like a blanket; I felt the moisture on my skin, the way each breath seemed labored. He crossed his arms and leaned back against his car. "I'm renting the old farm house," he said, knowing that the exact house would be called to my mind. It was on the outskirts of Raccoon, at the end of a long, winding road, overhung by willow trees. The only residence for half a mile. "It needs a fair amount of work," he added.

"I bet. The people that used to live there…" I nodded, knowingly. "They were pretty wild. Five boys. Dad died when they were kids." I didn't know why he was being so personal with me, or why I was going along with it, but it felt okay. It felt _comfortable_ even… though it probably shouldn't have.

He studied me in that ugly street light, as if I was somehow laid bare to him. I wasn't so much leered at as _observed_. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "There's a pond… at the back of your property," I said.

"Is there?" he asked. He tilted his head, his interest real.

"Yeah. When I was a kid, we used to swim there, catch fish. It's a nice, clear pond. Deep." I was surprised that he didn't know what was on his land.

"Hmm…," he mused. "I wasn't aware."

The conversation slowed, lulling.

"How… how long have you been living in Raccoon, if I can ask?"

He looked up then, into the starless night sky, thoughtful. "I've been in and out for years," he said. _Strange_ … I had never seen or heard of him, in a town of only two thousand. "I accepted this position about six months ago."

"It must be lonely out there," I said. I could have kicked myself as soon as I said it - what was I thinking, to assume a man who looked like Albert Wesker would ever be alone? What in the hell had come over me? I couldn't function; I was rude, I was reactive, I sounded so dumb.

"Life _is_ lonely, don't you think?" he said.

He opened the car door and put his take-out on the passenger seat. I nudged a few stones with my foot, awkwardly.

He sat down in the driver's side, his hand on the door, the keys in the ignition, and then he paused to look at me one more time.

"It was nice to hear your... _objective_ opinion of me." He almost smiled. "Genuine compliments, of any sort, are so few and far between."

I felt my face flushing. He started the car.

"Have a lovely weekend, Ms. Valentine," he said, and shut the door.

I watched his car disappear around a corner, into the summer night.

* * *

"Argh!" He yelled as the rest of the boys counted down from five. When they reached one, Chris groaned and poured himself another shot from the bottle of cheap vodka. " _Shiiiiit_." He couldn't think of a celebrity name that started with _T_ to save his life.

And I had begun to get concerned for his life. For real.

"Alright… alright," I said over their laughter. To Chris, I whispered, "Don't you think you should slow down?"

He waved me away and returned to the game. "I've got it this time. Tim fuckin' Curry."

His friends, my new co-workers, cheered. It was co-dependency at it's best. Chris passed the bottle.

"What comes after _T_?" Barry asked, hugging the nearly empty bottle to his chest. They'd convinced him to join in somewhere around ten o'clock.

"… L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S," Chris recited to himself. He was counting something on his fingers too.

" _U_ , dammit!" Frost laughed.

" _U_?! Whose name starts with _U_?" Barry was wheezing as the rest of them fell to hysterics.

"Okay… you know what? Gimme that. Let's go. Up. All of you," I said, reaching for the vodka, pressed to Barry's heart. "And you…," I said to him. "I don't know your wife, but she's going to kill you."

He reluctantly handed me the bottle. The rest of them made little noises of protest.

"What are you gonna do with that?" Vickers asked me. He'd had his head down on the table top for a while.

"Well, I'm definitely not going to drink it," I said.

"I will!" Chris volunteered.

"No, you won't." I held it away from him and set it on the bar, where Cindy took it right from my hand.

Grumbling, everyone started throwing down money.

Chris hugged me, his arm was heavy around my neck. "Jill's gonna be my new mommy," he smiled, talking lowly in my ear. "Right, Jilly? You're gonna take care of me."

We stood up together and he pressed his body tightly to mine. He wasn't quite falling down yet, but I circled my arm around his waist. It was hard to ignore the beer on his breath.

"Hey," Cindy called to us as we stumbled out. "Your boss-man left these. Can you give 'em to him?" She handed me a pair of sunglasses, since I was the only sober party. Before I could refuse, she'd walked away, back to wiping the mirror behind the bar.

I looked into the shiny black lenses and thought about the old farm house on Wisner Road.


	2. Cold Ground

Chris's parents died when he was twelve and his little sister, Claire, was five. The two of them had been kicked from one foster home to another until he turned eighteen. He joined the Air Force at nineteen and moved Claire back in with him. When he lost his job at twenty-four, he somehow found his way home to Raccoon, where he half-heartedly became a cop. The rest is… well, history.

Chris lived in a one-bedroom apartment with Claire, who was a senior at Raccoon City High School then. The place was within walking distance of J's Bar, which was unfortunate. I remember the exact lay-out of the flat. It was an absolute trash hole-in-the-wall. He gave poor Claire the bed, while he slept on a ratty couch in the middle of a rattier living room. The carpet was gappy and frayed around the edges; the fridge was noisy and temperamental in the summer; the walls were paper-thin and the neighbors inconsiderate. That apartment complex had been thrown up in the Sixties when Raccoon was still a mining boom town… and not a damn thing had been updated since then either.

I guess he was happy though. It was his place and his life now. No one could tell him what to do or when to do it anymore - not the state, not the armed services. That was all Chris Redfield really wanted out of life… a little freedom.

* * *

He handed me his keys as we walked up the sloping concrete steps to Apartment Building C.

"Orange key," he said as I flipped through the ring.

"Got it."

"I never get it in the hole on the first try," he joked, leaning on the brick wall. "There's a trick to it. You gotta wiggle it…" He bent double then, hands on his knees, looking ready to throw up.

"You okay?" I asked. The lock clicked as I turned it. On the first try.

He held up a hand and nodded, keeping his eyes shut tightly.

He wasn't okay. He'd just had about seven shots and four beers. It was a miracle that he didn't end up in the ICU every Friday night.

"Which floor?" I ask, pulling him into the hallway. It was lit by hard fluorescent lights and it smelled like industrial antiseptic, oregano, and wet dog. Chris held my hand and walked in front, leading me. He almost tripped over his own feet, rolling an ankle. I reached out to catch him, but he righted himself and laughed.

"This floor," he said.

Thank God, I thought.

"Number one-thirty-three. That's me and Claire." He burped quietly into the crook of his elbow. "Sorry."

His fingers still clung lightly to mine. We looked at each other in the hallway, just in front of his door. I noticed how the apartment numbers were hung crooked and worn by age. Chris was sweating a little, and I could smell the bar on him, even though he was a few feet away. His blue eyes were hazy and gentle as he gazed down on me. His lips looked full and wet, and his mouth was turned up into a generous smile.

He was still beautiful - even _that_ drunk. Not movie star beautiful, but beautiful in the way an athlete is in his prime. He was beautiful and he was staring at me, and we were going to go into his apartment, just the two of us, and I'd waited so long for him…

He pulled me closer, until our hip bones touched. His lashes were so dark, and they fluttered as he closed his eyes. He leaned in to kiss me and -

I turned my face away.

He blinked, stunned that I wasn't where he'd left me. I could almost see the questions as they formed in his head.

"I'm sorry," I said. "But you're… you know."

He stood up straight and looked me sternly in the eyes. "No. I don't know."

"You're drunk, Chris." I crossed my arms. "I'm sorry," I said meekly.

He looked down the hall and then back; his shocked expression revealed how infrequently a woman said _no_ to him. "So… I'm a little drunk? So what?" He reached for me and I backed away.

"So you're just going to hurt me," I said.

He stopped.

"You wouldn't do this… it's just because you're drunk." I didn't know how to say it. "I'm not… I'm not like the girls you pick… when you're not drunk."

He rubbed his face, not quite sober enough for _that_ conversation. "Jill…," he started.

"No. Seriously. It's okay," I said, hoping to cut it off there for the night.

"You're right. You're nothing like those girls."

I waited, breath held. I felt like I was going to get my cinematic moment, that this would be the start of my whirlwind romance, this would be _it_.

"You're like… my best friend. Like closer to me than my _sister_." He sighed, shaking his head. "I can't believe I would even think of ruining that… I mean, what the hell, right? I'm such a fuck-up. It doesn't make any sense… Christ."

My jaw clenched and my heart dropped into my stomach.

But I nodded.

"God… just… can you pretend this never happened? You know how I get when I drink. I'm a complete asshole."

"Okay," I whispered. "Sure."

He wrenched me into a bear hug - his affectionate gesture of choice.

"I'm sorry, Jilly. I'm sorry I almost ruined this," he said into my hair.

I didn't hug him back. I just stood there, absorbing his one-hundred percent platonic love. "Mm-hmm," I murmured, as understanding as ever.

"You forgive me?" he asked, hands on my shoulders.

"Yeah," I managed.

"You gonna make it home okay?"

"Of course," I said. _I'm_ not _the fucking falling down drunk_.

"Alright. Well, I'm gonna call it a night then… I guess I can get Gina to come over and handle this," he laughed stupidly, sort of looking down to his crotch.

I almost vomited. It took everything in me not to. I handed him his keys. He took them, his face pink with what I hoped was humiliation. Shit, I would have accepted mild embarrassment at that moment - just something, anything other than _har, har - you're just one of the guys, Jill!_

I turned and started down the hall before I did something that I would have regretted for a long time.

"Jill," he called, and the very stupid part of me hoped he would stop me, ask me to stay.

I waited, listening.

All I got was, "Thanks for always being there."

* * *

I don't really remember getting into my Jeep, my rage was so complete. It was close to one in the morning, maybe two.

And I was driving.

A summer rain poured down in sheets. I turned on my windshield wipers and thanked myself for putting the hardtop on before going out that night. The windows were down and I felt the chilly spray of the night rain as I headed into it. The June storm stopped though, after only a few minutes, as June storms always do in Ohio. The clouds in the sky had parted enough for the nearly-full moon to illuminate everything. Brilliant blue-white light on slick roads and soaked trees.

I shifted through the gears mindlessly, up and over hills, through a woods, past the cornfields and the red barn in Huntington Acres. When I was almost at the abandoned Raccoon City Rail Yard, I turned left onto that dark and narrow road.

I slowed, knowing the potholes were hellish on Wisner. Willow trees planted almost a century ago hung overhead like some living tunnel; the sorrowful branches were so thickly tangled that the road was barely wet from the downpour.

About halfway to the old farm house, just as I was taking the biggest curve, I realized _what_ I was doing, _where_ I was headed, and I almost stopped. I could have gone back - the headlights hadn't reached the house, it wouldn't have been suspicious.

Or I could just do what I needed to do.

I glanced at the sunglasses on the passenger seat… and drove on.

* * *

"Fuck," I cursed at myself as I pulled up.

Lights were on in the house. One room on the second floor - perhaps a hallway that ran right down the middle. _And_ the entire lower floor.

"Fuck fuck _fuck_." My heart was racing.

It was too late now though - no one came this far down the road without purposefully stopping.

I brought the Jeep to park in the u-shaped driveway.

 _Just walk the sunglasses up to the porch, put them on the front stoop, and leave_ , I repeated the mantra over and over in my mind, hoping to give myself enough courage to get out. It wasn't working well. I sat frozen, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles were white.

The night had cooled down from the storm, and a breeze rustled the huge trees in the front yard. The smell of jasmine growing wild someplace close blew into my Jeep. It was surreally gorgeous out there, I had to admit. Gorgeous and _foreboding_. Like one of those Gothic mansions on the cover of a V.C. Andrews's novel.

I stared up at the delicate lattice work around the windows; it wrapped about each edge like vines. I noticed that one of the second floor windows was pushed up. White curtains billowed in and out, but the room was dark.

I wondered, briefly, if that was his bedroom.

 _Enough procrastinating_. I felt around the passenger seat for the sunglasses.

When I looked up again, I nearly jumped. He was standing on his front porch, about ten feet away, watching me.

I put my hand to my chest, feeling my heart pounding away. "Wow. You scared me." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

He stood perfectly still, his arms crossed.

"I uh… I just… brought your sunglasses. From the bar," I said, holding them up. He didn't move. "I'm sorry to disturb you… I was going to leave them on your porch… They look expensive. Maybe you'd need them… over the…" I let the words trail off. He hadn't shown any kind of response at all.

He looked up at the moon and the spattering of stars that had emerged from behind the rain clouds. I looked up too. And then he walked up to the passenger side, leaning in through the window. I gave him the sunglasses. He turned them over in his hand, wordlessly.

"You have my gratitude," he said finally.

I breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his baritone voice.

He inspected my Jeep then, running his hand over the edge of the door frame.

"Do you take the top off?" he asked.

I almost smiled the double entendre. "I do, yeah. As much as I can."

He walked down the length of his side of the SUV, and nodded admiringly. I stared in the rearview mirror as he rounded the back, looking at the twin tail pipes. He disappeared from sight and my heart worked it's way into my throat. I shifted in my seat, one of my hands still strangling the steering wheel.

He reappeared on the driver's side, running his hand up over the edge of the doorframe again. He stopped at my window, and took a step back. "Impressive vehicle, Ms. Valentine."

I swallowed the spit that had been accumulating in the back of my throat. "Thank you, sir," I squeaked out. I couldn't imagine how terrifying it would be to be pulled over by him, if this was his method of happy small talk.

"You're out late," he commented.

I didn't know quite how to respond. "Yeah. It is… pretty late." I tapped the steering wheel, and then stopped myself.

"No company?" he asked.

I blinked. _Did he mean… Chris? Who did he mean? A boyfriend?_ "No, sir," I answered.

"I like that," he said. "The way you say _sir_."

My eyes must have been enormous.

"Would you like to show me the pond, Ms. Valentine?"

I looked at the clock, glowing in the dashboard. _1:44_ , in green. "This time of night… sir?"

His elbows were resting on the Jeep door, his hands hanging inside, dangerously close to me. He looked at the clock too. I studied his face for those precious seconds: he had such deep set eyes, the color of ice, and rather large for a man. His eyelashes were as pale blond as his hair; very full and very long. The shape of his nose was aquiline, the bridge narrow and straight. His lips, unlike Chris's, were thin and constantly set in a contemplative line, and his skin was porcelain smooth, not betraying his age. He could have been 29; he could have been 49.

He was more than _objectively_ handsome.

 _Much_ more.

"I suppose it's too late for a walk," he said.

"No… no, it's not too late," I replied. "Not at all."

I wonder if he knew I saw him smile.

* * *

Everything was alive that night. Cicadas shook off their skins and strange dark birds called from the trees all around us; bullfrogs barked in the marsh and dead leaves crunched under my boots. I led him down the little worn trail, knowing the way almost without looking, as the beam of my flashlight bounced with each step. I had long since let the conversation between us die. We moved through the woods in silence then; his footfalls so measured and careful that most of the time, I felt alone. I turned occasionally, to see if he was still there. And he _was_ always there, always looking at me with his great, unreadable eyes. I kept walking.

There was something of a slope down towards a clearing in the trees.

"Watch it here," I warned him. "It's a nasty fall, trust me."

He followed as I turned sideways, taking the rocky hill one unsure step at a time. We were about halfway down when I felt a stone roll out from under my foot. I was thrown, the flashlight dropped, and I yelped - preparing for a hard impact.

His hand caught me under one arm and held me up before my knees reached the gravelly hill. We were frozen like that for a few glorious seconds. I looked up at him.

"Watch it here," he mimicked me.

I watched his fingers drift along my arm. A reluctant stroke… a _caress_ … like he didn't want to let go. It was all so fast that I pushed the thought from my mind as soon as it formed. There was just no way that someone like him would… and he was my boss, never mind the fact that we hadn't even worked together yet… _No_. No way.

My body though, argued with that logic. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end like my skin had been electrified. Albert Wesker though, seemed unfazed. He took a step and then slid the rest of the way down the embankment, his balance perfect. He waited for me at the bottom.

* * *

We took a well-worn path through the soft, tall grass. It rose up on either side of the narrow trail, almost to my waist. It was sweet-smelling and I was taken back - straight to my childhood… Every summer was spent with the Phillips boys there in Raccoon. There were two of them - one a year older, one a year younger. They came from a really nice, really devout Jehovah's Witness family (the only one in town), and they would have to sneak out to play, peddling their ten-speeds as fast and as quiet as they could manage. We would run through that very same field, and that very same grass would whip at my bare midriff, and I would smell that very same smell of night flowers and rain. My mother was always furious after I was exhausted enough to make that long trek home; the mud would be caked on the bottoms of my off-brand tennis shoes, my hair would be a rat's nest from long days in the wind. My sister was already out of the house by then and I took the full brunt of my mother's agitation. She would follow me right to shower, lecturing until I shut the door and practically crawled into the bath tub to scrub the dirt off my sunburnt skin…

I put out my hand, let my fingers weave through the bushy, cattail tops of the grass. I clicked the flashlight off; the moon shone bright enough now. The earth was soft and springy under my feet from all of the May rain still trying to drain off. Crickets chirped and the bull frogs were still barking down at the pond. All around me, fire flies burned in the blackness and then faded.

I felt transported.

"It's just a little ways," I said, turning to Wesker.

I'd been so deep in my reminiscing, I'd almost forgotten he was there.

I caught him, running his own hand over and through the grass. His face, his demeanor, his _everything_ … was relaxed as he followed me. I thought maybe he was remembering his own childhood. He stopped when I saw him, letting his arm drop to his side. He stared at me as if I'd walked in on him, as if he'd done something wrong. He was rigid again.

"It's soft, right?" I asked, dumbly.

"Silver bluestem." He looked away from me.

"What?" I said.

"Silver bluestem grass. It's native."

"Oh," I started. "Yeah."

He cleared his throat. "It's up ahead?" he asked. "The pond," he clarified, his voice robotic.

"Yeah," I said, sad to see his humanness had hidden itself again. "Yeah."

* * *

The night sky and it's million blinking stars opened up over the pond. I remembered it being smaller than it was, which I thought was odd as most people remember things being much bigger than they are. The half-rotted dock was still out in the middle of the water. The moon glinted off the ladder on the side.

"We used to climb up on that and dive off," I said, pointing.

He stood next to me, his hands on his hips. One of his shirt tails was pulled out in the back. He looked almost casual, standing there in the woods in the middle of the night.

I reached down, feeling the rocks along the pond shore. I knew exactly what I was looking for. When I found it, I picked it up.

"It would be _really_ cold… We didn't care though." I whipped the stone. It bounced across the surface of the water, once, twice, three times. And then _plunked_ as it dropped for good. "One time… it must've been September… but the water was so cold that I almost got hypothermia. I remember just shivering and shivering. I couldn't stop. My mom held me down in a bathtub of lukewarm water for an hour."

Wesker didn't look at me. But he was listening. He was listening to every single thing I said.

I searched for another smooth rock. I found one and dusted it off. "Where are you from?" I asked, just before I launched the stone. It only bounced twice before sinking. "Damn."

"I'm from everywhere… and nowhere," he said.

I laughed, readying a third rock. "You're a walking riddle, huh?" Four skips. The black water rippled. The bull frogs had ceased their croaking. "I'll stop with the questions, sir."

"Don't stop," he said. "Though I'm afraid I haven't got any interesting answers for you, Ms. Valentine."

I nodded, watching him from the corner of my eye. "Did you grow up in a town like this?"

He frowned, concentrating. "No. Nothing like this."

"City boy," I smiled.

"I don't recall much of my childhood, to be honest. Perhaps I was a _city boy_ ," he said. It was a strange comment; I didn't want to pry.

"Do you like it here?" I asked.

He ran a hand over his hair. "I could… I believe so. I could like it here very much…"

I glanced at him, and found him staring at me again with his unreadable icy eyes. I swallowed.

"What is that - that you're doing?" He gestured to the rock in my hand.

" _This_?" I flung it out. I laughed at his question; I thought he was making fun of me somehow. "Skipping stones?"

"Show me how," he said.

I raised my eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes." His mouth turned up at the corner in a sort of wicked smile. "Is there a problem with that, Ms. Valentine? Do you think I'm incapable of learning?"

I laughed again, made incredibly nervous and a million other emotions by his sarcasm. _Was he really kidding? Was this some kind of test?_

I slowly leaned over, trying to keep an eye on him and find a stone at the same time. My fingers brushed against one - even and smooth and flat-ish. It was perfect.

"Aerodynamic," he said, tossing it up and catching it. "And you pitch it - not unlike a frisbee?"

"Yeah. Kind of like a frisbee… sort of on it's side," I said.

He gripped the stone - fingers below, thumb on top.

"No," I stepped in, adjusting his hand. "Index here…" I moved it. "Thumb on the side. Right. That's good."

Our eyes met.

"Don't fling it with the wrist bent, from behind." I made a snapping motion with my wrist. "Like that. Like cracking a whip. Sideways."

Wesker smiled. "Like cracking a whip…" he repeated.

"You're familiar with that?" I asked before I could even stop myself. I felt a red-hot blush creeping up my throat, coloring my face. I was thankful for the cover of darkness.

" _Very_ ," he threatened, and then he catapulted the rock.

It took great, wide skips - once, twice, and so on… and then it took an uncountable series of tiny hops across the water… _perfect_. It sank somewhere near the center of the water. A flock of startled ducks took flight on the other side of the pond.

"Thirteen, I think. Plus the sputtering at the end," he said. "I didn't quite catch those. There must be something with the spin of the stone. We could work out a formula to improve the ballistics, I'm sure."

In all the years I'd done this, never once had I surpassed seven skips. I couldn't remember even a well-practiced boy going over ten. I stood, transfixed.

He turned to me. "Was that sufficient?"

"I thought you never did this before," I said.

"I have not."

I looked out into the pond. "Do it again."

And so he did. He beat himself the second time, and leveled off on the third. Every bird in the woods had left it's perch, fleeing into the night sky. A few dogs howled and bayed. He sent another rock skipping across the pond.

It was really incredible. I had no idea how he did it.

Our fun was interrupted when the blast of a shotgun went off somewhere in the woods.

We looked at each other. Wesker pitched another rock, this time purposefully crashing it right into the water. The ripples waved out, lapping almost all the way to the shoreline.

The shotgun sounded again - _much_ closer.

Wesker dove to the ground, taking me with him. Our shoulders bumped and our sides pressed tight together. His eyes were huge and pale in the moonlight, and his hand was on my back, pushing me down. I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity.

" _You kids go on home! Get!"_ a man yelled from across the pond.

Wesker snorted.

"Jesus… It's Mack Scurry." I said, rolling my eyes. "I can't believe he's still alive." He must have thought we were just another pair of horny teenagers, making out at the pond in the summer heat.

"You hear me?" Scurry called again. "Go home, 'for I come over there!" The dogs sounded closer, going berserk.

Laying on his stomach, Wesker picked up a heavy-looking stone.

" _Don't_ ," I hissed.

Smiling, he threw it. The water _ker-plunked_ like a gulp as it swallowed up the rock… just the way he'd hoped it would.

There was the smashing and splintering of underbrush on the other side of the water as Wesker's neighbor neared. The dogs were running ahead of the old man, yipping and growling as they came right at us. Wesker yanked me up by the back of my tank top; we laughed, shushing each other, trying to keep quiet.

"Go!" he whispered.

And we ran along the shoreline, the rocks and sand grinding beneath our footfalls. Breathless, we kept pace through the woods, the vines and low branches stinging at my arms, my legs, narrowly missing my face. We ran along the narrow trail - Wesker just a few steps behind me - and then we scaled the little hill. I couldn't find footing and kept slipping back down; I tried so hard to keep my laughter in that I was wheezing. I grabbed at handfuls of roots, clumps of thick grass, trying to pull myself up. Eventually, Wesker pushed me from underneath… his hands on the backs of my tired thighs, sliding up… and up, until… I gasped when he boosted me, the contact with my ass all too brief. I almost wondered if I'd imagined it.

"You have to help, Ms. Valentine… Pull yourself up." His voice was low. I could _hear_ the smile on his lips. "There you go…" He praised me as I dug the toes of my shoes in, scraping and clawing my way up as he helped. "Good girl…," he said so strangely. " _Good girl…_ "

I should have been disturbed, maybe even offended.

But I wasn't.

Suddenly, the game was over, the race was done. We both found our way up the incline, and we stood, some distance from each other. I brushed my hair out of my face; my chest felt flushed, rising and falling with each labored breath. I hoped he couldn't tell what he did to me.

Wesker watched me comb through my hair with my fingers. He reached out, and I flinched. He plucked a leaf from the tangled mess in my hands. I didn't thank him - I was too afraid of breaking the silence, the tension, between us. It made lungs hurt and my heart pound.

* * *

He walked ahead of me the rest of the way back to the old farm house.

We went up his gravel driveway. He took slower steps, and I was trudging along behind him. I realized, as my Jeep came into view, that I didn't want to go home… I wanted… _something_. I felt unfinished.

I thought of Chris, and the dumb girl he was most likely fucking at that exact moment. Maybe she was infatuated with him the same way I was - his all-American charm like some glittering promise of a lower-middle-class life.

I knew I couldn't hold it against him; I wasn't the right kind of girl for him. I had _at least_ half a brain. And what had I passed up on getting screwed and forgotten by Chris to do? I had been in the woods in the middle of the night with our arrogant new boss, the one he hated with a fiery passion. It felt a little like justice for all the years I'd spent waiting for Chris Redfield.

I looked up and saw that I had made it to the driver's side door, my fingers on the handle, my keys ready. I couldn't glimpse Wesker in my peripheral vision. He must have been somewhere behind me.

Disappointed, I started, "I guess I'll see you —"

But I was cut off by the heat of him, against my back, demanding all of my attention.

Everything stood still. All of the night faded out and became fuzzy. No more birds, no more frogs, no more moon.

He gathered my hair and moved it over my shoulder. And then his lips brushed the nape of my neck. I sighed. Sharp, even teeth were next, biting me gently. His hot mouth was the only thing that I could register. My legs trembled and my thighs spread on their own to keep me upright. My palms, damp with excitement, pressed to the window leaving desperate streaks. His teeth sunk in to the sensitive flesh between shoulder and throat, almost breaking the skin - just this side of pleasure, so much like agony. I whimpered and stumbled… but it never even crossed my mind to stop him.

"I very nearly lost control a moment ago, Ms. Valentine," he said. "I dislike losing control."

I took quick, terrified breaths. I couldn't have replied if I'd wanted to.

He inhaled deeply, smelling my skin.

His fingers closed around my throat, just under my jaw. I watched in the Jeep's window, transfixed. He tested me, an almost imperceptible squeeze around my jugular. I drew in a sharp breath.

"You have a body that demands a certain kind of pain," he rasped in my ear. I saw the flash of his cruel blue eyes in the window.

"I know," I whispered.

His teeth gnashed together like an animal. I could feel them grind. I panted.

"And I… have an _intense_ need to inflict that pain," he told me. His eyes flitted up to meet mine.

I stared at our dark reflections - my hair wild, his hand around my throat. I had been looking for this - it hadn't had a name, but here it was. I closed my eyes. "I think I understand…," I said, my voice wavering. " _Sir_."

He easily turned me to face him, and he held me fast in place by my hair, by my throat. I had no time to think or resist; his mouth was on mine. He tried to devour me, but I was just as hungry. I'd been fighting with my needs for such a long time that I felt like I had to eat him whole. We suffocated each other - tongues exploring teeth and throats, swollen lips and wet skin. All I could hear was the slick sound of our mouths fucking and the blood pounding in my head. He yanked me to him, and let myself be pressed against his narrow hips and capable thighs. He was hard, so hard that it must have hurt - it _had_ to. I wormed a hand between us, wanting badly to feel that power throb under my starving fingers.

He shoved me to arm's length - my back suddenly against the Jeep. I was practically gasping for air; he was too. We sounded as if we'd been drowning and we'd surfaced just in time to save our lives.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not yet," he said between heaving breaths. "Not yet."

"When?" I appealed.

He laughed at me. "When I say, Ms. Valentine. And only when I say."

I frowned at his smile. That was funny to him - that control he thought he had over me. I shook my head, disgusted, and wrenched the door open. I pulled myself up and into the driver's seat, but his hand caught the door as I reached to close it. I scowled. He leaned in, tracing a finger down my cheek. I turned my face from his touch.

"Soon," he assured me.

I guffawed. "Don't count on it."

He smiled - a nasty, sarcastic thing - but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He was as indecipherable as ever.

"But I _do_ count on it. I count on it as much as I counted on you to bring these back to me…" He held up the sunglasses. "I was a bit surprised you showed up tonight though. So _eager_ …"

My mouth hung open and I narrowed my eyes. He'd planted them? The sunglasses? He'd left them there, asked that barmaid to give them to me?

Wesker stepped back, shutting the driver's side door smoothly. I sat completely still, my mind turning the idea over and over.

He rapped on the glass. Angrily, I cranked the window down.

"What?" I asked.

"Have sweet dreams tonight, Ms. Valentine," he said, and then he looked me up and down. The rain was starting again, settling like a fine mist on his face and hair. He seemed almost like a ghost.

* * *

"And that was the beginning of our very slow end."

Alex turned a heavy silver fork end over end.

Jill pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Most of the logs in the fireplace had burned down to a glowing pile of embers. "I —" She began to cough. A servant standing near the table rushed to her side, handing her a white cloth napkin.

When the coughs stopped wracking her body, she bought the kerchief to rest on the table. She and Alex stared at the ominous crimson stain for only a moment before she folded the napkin and pushed it away.

"You're ill," Alex said.

"Of course I'm ill," Jill replied. She leaned back in the dinner chair, her hand limply covering her eyes. The fire crackled. "I've been shot up and drained for two years. They tried everything on me. Everything you could possibly think of… aside from cutting me wide open and taking it all out."

"And why do _they_ have such an interest in you, Ms. Valentine?" Alex's eyes were blank.

"Same reason as you," Jill said. "I was his pet."

"It would seem you were much more than his _pet_." Alex straightened the silverware around her untouched plate. She glanced up, watching Jill's face for a reaction. There was not even a flicker of one. Alex cleared her throat. "I suppose we're acquainted enough now…"

Jill looked at her through cracked eyes.

"He was researching something… something very big."

"Uroboros," Jill intoned, bored. "It failed. The end. That's all, folks."

"Not Uroboros," Alex countered. "Without a doubt, the worst work he'd ever done… _Amateur-ish_ , even. No, I'm much more interested in what was on your chest."

Jill glared. She wrenched the blanket over herself, protecting the scars that lay under her shirt. "You know what that was it. It pumped a zombie drug straight into my heart. I was a _slave_."

Alex smiled. Her white suit seemed to cast a halo around her in the firelight. "False. You were his greatest success, his _Venus de Milo_. That plate… what he put in you… held the key to unlocking every door."

She laughed. "Were all thirteen of you like this? Shitty poets? Shittier scientists?"

Alex's fist came crashing down to the tabletop. The expensive china plates shivered, the crystal glasses tinkled. Jill watched her, unmoved. She had her brother's temper, most certainly; Jill was more than familiar with it.

"Don't mock me, you little bitch. I saved your life!" Alex boomed.

"Did you? Is that what this is?" Jill gestured around the richly trussed room. "It's a just another prison, _Alex_."

She shivered at that - a tremor that went right up her spine. Something in the way the girl said her name… _something_ … Alex adjusted the lapels of her jacket, trying to regain her composure. She breathed deeply before she went on. "You are aware that there is a… boy, of close relation. Somewhere out there."

Jill sighed.

"The stakes are very high, Ms. Valentine. We must find Jacob Muller," Alex continued. "Before you're dead."


End file.
